Soap. It cleanses the skin, washes the accumulated breath of countless people away, dead skin along with it.
A man is taking a shower in an upstairs apartment. He is careful where and how he steps. The rubber mat which should be in the bottom of the tub is gone.
It is later than he thinks.
The rubber mat was taken by his ex. He could not understand why she took it, and the dish rack and the coat hangers. The bottom of the tub is slippery and hard. Did she want him to slip?
Soap makes water wetter and water washes the soap and skin and breath away. From the window, he can see his car. He wonders why there is a window in the shower at all. The car is an impotent, faded red. Scratched. Still, it intimidates him. It might not start.
Careful how he steps, he enters the stream of water. The water is warm on his skin, penetrates the crevices and folds of him. Hot drops. Cold drops. Thousands of them, mixing for mediocrity. How many made it to his body without the taint of another temperature? It is warm now. He expects it to turn hot, or cold. It is a daily ordeal.
The water is more often cold than hot, a statistic he approves of. Cold, the body sense and recoils. Heat comforts at the start; the flesh pillows the will and he is drawn into the water until it is too late and hot. It is later than he thinks.
Work should be calling soon, to see what is keeping him.
When the water turns, he is unsuspecting and slips to escape the heat, only saving his balance when he reaches blindly and grabs the soap dish. It is anchored in the wall. Soap makes water wetter.
The phone rings as he punches the handle too hard, stopping the flow of water. Soap is caked on his hand, which will later be a conspicuous white mark on the leg of his pants.